Because later this afternoon my youngest son and I will be driving in to the City (Saskatoon) in order to see Andrei Tarkovsky’s “Stalker” on the big screen. I’ve been a fan of the Tark’s for ages and to have the opportunity to view his work on something other than a 32″ television is a temptation too good to pass up.

A few announcements to get out of the way, some housekeeping to tend to:

This Saturday, June 17th, as part of the W.I.P. Dance Series at the Free Flow Dance Centre in Saskatoon (224 25th St. W.), Jackie Latendresse’s group will be performing several new works-in-progress, utilizing some of my ambient music. Doors open at 7:30 and the performances start at 8:00. Interested in modern, creative dance? Drop in for a look…and a listen. For more info, see here.

If you’d like to experience some of my odd, spacey music, check it out either hereor on BandCamp.

Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing recently published a poem of mine (now there’s a rare occurrence). You’ll find “Covenant” on page 67 of their latest issue, read it here.

* * * *

I don’t have a lot of friends.

My social network is pretty limited, the time I can devote to cultivating friendships—phone calls, writing letters and e-mails—almost nonexistent. What can I tell you? I’m a pretty driven fellow and creating things (novels, stories, paintings, short films, music) is the central, defining focus of my life.

Those few pals I do have are acquaintances of long standing, people who have proven they can put up with my temperament and endure my frequent and lengthy silences. If you’re looking for a high maintenance relationship, you’re scratching at the wrong door (my wife will confirm as much).

I got to know Gord Ames in the early 1990s.

I think we were still living in Iqaluit at the time and came back to Regina during the summer to visit family. I’d heard about the new bookstore on 13th Avenue and, of course, the bibliomaniac in me was dying to see it.

I wandered into Buzzword Books, casting a glance at the fellow behind the counter, who gave me a nod. No ebullient welcome, no attempt to strike up a conversation, no friendly banter.

Then I realized why.

The books said it all. The longer I spent in the store, the more I loved it. It wasn’t a big space but the selection was absolutely wondrous. No commercial crap or braindead best-sellers.

Once I’d taken the store’s measure, I approached the counter with two or three books and raved at the bookseller on the quality of his stock. He offered some droll, funny response, and a friendship was born.

Sadly, the bookstore is no more and Gord and his wife Caroline have moved to the West Coast (might as well be Mars, sigh). But they’re still an important presence in my life, two unique spirits and true blue, dyed-in-the-wool characters.

It’s Gord’s birthday today and this morning I want to pay tribute to a man who is a friend, mentor and a valued confidante. The breadth of his knowledge, the sharpness of his wit, never cease surprising and astonishing me. His taste is exceptional, his editorial eye (and ear) peerless. He’s turned me on to so many brilliant authors, musicians, film-makers over the years, drawing my attention to obscure, forgotten talents I would have otherwise overlooked. How would I have managed without him?

That rare combination of intelligence, erudition and caustic, irreverent humor—you just don’t find that in too many people these days. My friend is a pearl of exceeding value and uniqueness; a one-off, a mutant, a genius.

Happy birthday to a man who is a daily reminder that the world is not as foolish, arbitrary and ugly as it seems. There are still men and women whose very existence serves to reassure us: though we may have descendants among lower order animals, we still possess minds and virtues that can defeat our humble origins…and carry us to the stars.

Enduring a spring cold at the moment, my neck glands throbbing like the bass line of a Eurotrash pop song.

Never mind, if we are to believe the Buddhists, “life is suffering” and there ain’t a whole helluva lot we can do about it. Just pop plenty of Tylenol, drink green tea and hope for the best.

A philosophy perfectly in synch with our do-nothing times.

A lovely bit of news this morning, Hollywood North has posted (in two parts) my critical essay on the films of Canadian auteur and enfant terrible, Alain Marchant. You can find the article here–Hollywood North is an on-line site devoted to Canadian film-making and thus I was pleased that they recognized the merits of “The Toxic Cinema of Alain Marchant”.

I’ve followed Marchant’s career with a kind of sickened fascination for the past 8-10 years and in terms of sheer hubris and poor taste, only Danish director Lars von Trier can compare with Marchant. Have a look at my feature, you’ll see what I mean.

Great weather of late, which helps pick up the spirits. Hard to stay inside, slaving over a desk, with the sun shining and birds singing.

Mostly it was swallowed up by a 12,000-word novelette set in my “Ilium” universe. At one point I spent eighteen consecutive days slaving away on said project, from eight in the morning until eight at night. Fun, fun, fun.

Because for me to be at my most creative I have to be fully immersed in a work, utterly incognizant of the “real world” around me.

And so it’s been with this latest piece.

I’ve barely been reading, just some essays from a posthumous collection by the great Tony Judt. So burned out the most I can manage in terms of entertainment the last few nights are a couple of old Gene Autry westerns. I kid you not. The singin’ cowboy a balm on my brain.

But yesterday I finally printed up my “Sherron Draft” and this weekend my devoted and long-suffering wife will go through the novelette and render her verdict. And from there: revisions and more revisions until at last I’m satisfied I’ve got it as note perfect as I can.

The ceaseless grind. That’s the part they don’t tell you about in those helpful “how to” articles in Writer’s Digest or that expensive creative writing class you just enrolled in. Creation, getting words down on paper, that’s the easy part…it’s the process that comes afterward that tests your mettle. How much effort are you prepared to expend to make your story or poem the best it can possibly be? Meticulous, tireless editing. That’s the difference between genius and wannabes.

Somehow I also managed to complete an overview of a fictional Quebecois film-maker and enfant terrible, a 2000-word “mockumentary” that’s the best piece of satire I’ve written in ages. I have some plans for that one and will likely release it in the next week or so. I’ll update you as soon as there’s anything to report on that front.

…and like everybody else, I’ve been watching the political shenanigans south of the border with growing incredulity.

First of all, this talk of a “contest” on the Democratic side is a joke. Hillary has the money and power, Bernie is a nice guy with some cool ideas. Bernie represents a movement; Hillary is a fucking machine. She’s got this one wired tight. End of story.

Regarding the Republicans, I’m starting to see shades of Barry Goldwater in 1964.

Name not familiar to you youngsters? He’s the dude who famously said: “Extremism in the defence of liberty is no vice”.

Still doesn’t ring any bells?

Never mind. The point is that in 1964 Goldwater and his followers were like today’s Tea Party—pissed off about special interests and insiders controlling Washington, the whole thing in need of a radical overhaul, etc. Richard Nixon and the GOP hierarchy came to the conclusion that Lyndon Johnson, wearing the mantle of an assassinated president (JFK), was unbeatable in 1964 and decided to let Goldwater and his lunatic fringe seize the reins of the Republican party. Once they were annihilated, they would go slinking back to their rat holes and the true king-makers and lever-pullers could take back the party in time for 1968.

Which is exactly what happened.

Makes me wonder if today’s Republican poobahs aren’t intending the same thing in 2016. Let Trump and his dickhead followers lead the party to certain ruin against the Hillary juggernaut, and then regain control in time for congressional and senate elections and a run at the presidency (hopefully with a more proven, viable candidate) in 2020.

Right now the GOP establishment is spooked—their two star candidates, Jeb Bush and Marco Rubio, have failed to produce any excitement or momentum. Bush, in particular, never looked statesmanlike and comfortable in the spotlight and clearly wasn’t interested in making a serious bid. Hopefully, we’ve seen the last Bush in the Oval Office (my daily mantra). Rubio’s been rallying of late but does he have the balls to go toe-to-toe with the Donald? That remains to be seen. He needs better gag writers and he has to take the gloves off. Marco, if you can’t manage to engage with and whup a coiffed, spoiled blowhard, frankly you don’t deserve a shot at the big chair.

I’ve been a political junkie for as long as I can remember and that sphere (especially south of the border) just keeps getting weirder and weirder.

Money has distorted the process and attaining power and stature have become the primary motivations of those seeking to represent us.

Public service? Accountability? Transparency? Ethics?

Mere words, lacking currency or value in a world increasingly fixated on satisfying selfish desires, while consciously and arrogantly absolving itself of the consequences of its greed and stupidity.

Reform? Revolution?

Don’t make me laugh.

People, it has been said, get the form of government they most deserve.

In that sense, today’s theatrics and hijinks don’t say much about us as a society and civilizing influence, do they?

I was fortunate this year, hitting the century mark (100+) both in terms of the number of books read and movies watched.

I’ve gone through my lists and compiled a roster of favourites–difficult, in many cases, to settle on a definitive order, impose a hierarchy of excellence. Every single selection brilliant in its own right and worthy of inclusion:

Non-Fiction

The Price of Inequality (Joseph Stiglitz)The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (Ilan Pappé)Theodore Rex (Edmund Morris)Colonel Roosevelt (Edmund Morris)The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know is Possible (Charles Eisenstein)Werner Herzog: Conversations (with Paul Cronin)Orson Welles’ Last Movie: The Making of “The Other Side of the Wind” (Josh Karp)Arms: The Culture and Credo of the Gun (A.J. Somerset)My Father and Myself (J.R. Ackerley)When in Disgrace (Budd Boetticher)

I’m a space geek, a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool fanatic when it comes to anything to do with making the stars our destination.

I think it’s a complete drag how we seem to have stalled here in near-Earth orbit. Sending tourists up to the International Space Station at twenty million bucks a pop, while dispatching robot drone ships to the far reaches of the solar system, letting them do the work for us. No need for boots on the ground, expensive manned programs, grand visions…

ABOUT CLIFF BURNS:

I have been an independent author and publisher for thirty years. I've written eleven books (novels, short story collections & poetry), including DISLOYAL SON, SO DARK THE NIGHT and SEX & OTHER ACTS OF THE IMAGINATION. In the past three decades over one hundred of my tales have appeared in anthologies and publications around the world.